


All I've Ever Wanted

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Background Johncroft, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to more, M/M, Sherstrade, vulnerable!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is jealous of John and Mycroft's relationship. As time passes, he finds someone just for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I've Ever Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the prompt: John and Mycroft has started a steady relationship and Sherlock is seeing more and more Mycroft in 221b, to his dismay. One night Sherlock found John & Mycroft in a compromising position (or they could be just cuddling/kissing/holding hand whatever but Sherlock overreacts) and Sherlock ran off from the flat and had to seek refuge. That’s where Lestrade came in. Sherlock started to spend his time in Lestrade’s flat more and he found that he started to fall for the DI.
> 
> As usual, you can send me prompts for minor pairs [HERE!](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com)

It started as something small and barely noticeable, the prickling on his skin, the flashes of anger whenever he saw John and Mycroft together. Whenever he saw the soft smiles, the warmth, the affection. All things Sherlock had never had directed his way. All things he wanted, but never had. It was Mycroft asserting his superiority, showing that there was, indeed, one thing that he was better at than Sherlock.

And Sherlock hated it.

More than anything, he hated watching them together. Hated seeing the genuineness of Mycroft’s smile, the warmth in John’s eyes, the way their bodies seemed to gravitate towards each other’s, unintentionally. It made him angry, it made him irrational. He ruined experiments. He snapped at John. He dismantled their toaster twice before John hid it. Moved onto the kettle. The oven. Anything. John angry was better than John being dreamy over Mycroft.

Sherlock wouldn’t name the emotion that flowed through his veins, whenever he saw them together. He was too far above humanity to be prey to something as horrifically banal as jealousy, but there wasn’t another descriptor that felt apt. Instead, Sherlock ignored it. Ignored the low simmer of emotion that threatened to consume him with each surge, threatened to send him to do something he would regret. Allowing them to know how he felt would be the last nail in his coffin. Would give Mycroft one last, vicious hold over his younger brother.

Then it happened. One night, after a private case Sherlock had recently closed, he came home, tired and ragged, a gash on his cheek that he had been hoping John could look at. He pushed open the door to 221B, stepped inside, and stopped, his hands freezing on his scarf out of habit, caught in the motions of removing the soft fabric from around his neck. How he had missed the soft noises, the moans, he had no idea. Distracted, probably. John was sitting on Mycroft’s lap, both their flies undone, hands working between them, as John panted into the crook of Mycroft’s neck. Sherlock took a few steps back and shut the door in front of him.

Anger flared, and for a second he wanted to tell them to stop, that it wasn’t fair, that they couldn’t have something he couldn’t have. Instead he shoved his gloved hands in his pockets, left 221B, and just walked. And walked. If asked, he would have not said he knew where he was going. He didn’t care. He just wanted somewhere away from there, away from the representation of something he would never have.

Greg answered the door, when he knocked. Opened his mouth to scold, to chide, and stopped when he saw the bleeding gash on Sherlock’s cheek. “Come in,” he said instead, and he invited Sherlock inside. No questions, no hesitation, no snide, sneering remarks. Acceptance. It was a balm, sent something warm and fuzzy streaking over Sherlock’s skin. It was comforting, and Sherlock did not know why. He only knew that he wanted more.

Sherlock sat and allowed Greg to fuss over the scratch. It wasn’t surprising that Greg kept such a well-equipped first aid kit. Prior to John, Greg had been Sherlock’s handler, in charge of keeping him from killing not only himself but everyone else on the force. He had seen Sherlock at his worst, watched him go through his addiction, his recovery, into his maintenance. Sherlock had repaid him with snark and derision, avoiding him, talking to him only when convenient. It was a miracle that Greg still tolerated his presence.

Greg let him sleep on the couch, that night. He didn’t ask why. He just offered. Sherlock nodded, said yes. Woke up to a blanket draped carefully over him. It had not been there last night. He left before Greg woke up.

It was two weeks later, after a case that had left them exhausted and brittle. Sherlock rarely showed compassion on a case, because he couldn’t. Couldn’t show that it got to him, but it did. He nodded to John, saw Mycroft’s car outside, and decided to leave. He didn’t want to be a witness to their affection.

It startled him, when he appeared in front of a door, when he realized what came into focus in front of him. He pressed an ear to the door, listening, and heard only the faint crackle of the TV. Carefully he pulled out his lockpicks, picking the shabby lock of the apartment within a minute and quietly opening the door just enough to allow him inside.

Sherlock found himself walking noiselessly through the apartment, past the kitchen, the toilet, the living room. He stood in the doorway to Greg’s bedroom, watching the up and down, steady movement of the DI’s chest, the way he breathed. Greg understood, what John did. The quiet, soft touches, the warm affection. He had been married. He understood the various expressions of human affection.

There was a soft crunch and Sherlock realized he had been fiercely gripping the cheaply made doorframe and had left imprints on the soft wood. He turned around, leaving Greg behind, in his bedroom, and settled on the couch again. The soft noise of the static on the TV was oddly comforting, and he fell asleep attempting to work out a pattern to the various levels of noise.

He woke up to a soft sigh and an amused, rueful grin. A key was pressed into his hand, with strict instructions to actually use it and to give the lockpicks a break. Sherlock watched Greg bustle about, watched him prepare an extra slice of toast, with a small amount of butter, just the way he knew Sherlock liked it. There was a mug of tea next to the couch where he lay, the small wisps of steam indicating that it was freshly made.

“Here.” Greg’s voice was warm, amused, affectionate. He handed Sherlock the toast, gesturing for him to sit up, to eat, to drink.

Silently he sat up, sipping the tea, taking the toast when it was delivered. He didn’t know what to say. Was there something to say? He hadn’t done anything like this, hadn’t gone to Greg before when things no longer made sense. When the static in his mind, the emotions, everything became too overwhelming and just too much. Without thinking, he had sought out the DI. He was certain that it meant something. He just didn’t know what.

Greg was gone, a few moments later, off for work, leaving Sherlock behind. Sherlock finished the tea, finished the toast, and sat the dishware on the table. Then he went back to 221B, ignoring a blushing, stammering John and focusing solely on the experiment in front of him. He needed more data.

It became a pattern, one Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of. During a case, he would stay home, mulling over the thoughts, the puzzle pieces, until something clicked into place and made sense. When the cases were over, however, he spent more and more time out of 221B. After approximately two weeks of Sherlock spending three or four nights in a row in Greg’s apartment, he had moved blankets and pillows out where Sherlock could get to them. Not that he did, no matter how quick they were to access. Yet, each night, he woke up to a blanket covering his body, protecting him.

Sometimes he would arrive in time for Greg to order takeout, and they would sit on the sofa, side by side. Greg would watch a match, or a show, whatever was on. Sometimes he would chatter to Sherlock about it, sometimes he would get caught up, shouting at this team or that, cheering when his side made an excellent play. Others he would be quiet, comment occasionally, just enough that Sherlock was reminded that he wasn’t alone, that there was someone next to him.

Then it started.

Or maybe it had started long ago, and Sherlock had just began to notice.

The way his heart sped up, when he saw Greg smile. When the DI touched him, on the shoulder, a casual pat, a hand on his back, leaning towards him, the way that simple touch sent electricity jolting through him, making everything feel hypersensitive, alive. How he noticed as soon as Greg arrived, and was sad the moment he left. How he tracked the man with his eyes, watching his every movement. He wanted to touch Greg, wanted to hug him, wanted to see what his skin felt like, under his clothes, what his lips felt like against his own. But he didn’t.

Instead he stayed away, and two weeks after the resolution of their latest case, he stayed home, on the sofa, thinking. He ignored John’s worried glances, ignored Mycroft’s visits, ignored the way his elder brother would spirit away the military doctor. Nothing mattered. He had something more important to focus on.

Sherlock opened his eyes and nearly jumped off of the couch. Greg was standing a metre or two away, watching him, something in his eyes, in his gaze, that Sherlock didn’t recognise. “Hello,” Greg said softly. Sherlock watched him, his heart pounding, but outwardly calm.

“John called you,” Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes in defeat. Of course. John wasn’t as stupid as Sherlock had assumed. Not always, anyway. Of course he would connect the dots.

“No.” Greg stepped closer. “I was worried about you.”

Sherlock waved his hand in the air, settling back into his familiar posture. “Unnecessary.”

“Right. Well, then. I’ll leave you to it. Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t up and died, and all.” Sherlock opened his eyes, watched Greg run a hand through his hair. There was a faint tinge of red to his cheeks - embarrassment? Sherlock wasn’t sure.

Greg was nearly to the door when Sherlock stood, stepping on the coffee table as the most direct route to the door. The DI half-turned, a slight scowl on his face, his mouth half-open to scold Sherlock about the tedious furniture, when Sherlock backed him up against the wall and kissed him. It was an awkward kiss, Sherlock’s first, too much pressure, and Sherlock pulled back, puzzled. All he had heard, all he had read, indicated kissing to be one of the greatest wonders of the human world.

Then again, it looked like it could simply be added to the large list of things humanity had been incorrect about.

Then Greg apparently realized what was going on, slid a hand about Sherlock’s waist, drew him close, and using a hand, carefully cupped Sherlock’s face, holding him still. He leaned forward, slowly, drawing out the anticipation, and Sherlock made a soft noise, impatient, demanding. Greg needed to either do something, or allow Sherlock to get back to - whatever it was he had to be doing. It was surely something important.

Greg closed the distance, holding Sherlock still, and kissed him softly, gently, feather-light touches of lip to lip. It sent little jolts of arousal through Sherlock, coalescing in his groin, and Sherlock couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped him. The kiss grew in intensity, Sherlock pressing himself against Greg in an attempt to get friction, more, anything. Everything he had wanted, everything he needed, was there, for him to have. He just had to take it, had to trust in someone else’s ability to give it.

Sherlock was relatively certain at that point that humanity had actually gotten something right. Kissing was rather fantastic.

Finally Greg pulled back, panting, pupils dilated, lips swollen. Sherlock smirked, although he doubted he looked much more composed. “God,” Greg murmured, pulling his hand away from Sherlock’s body and gently caressing his face. “I thought - I didn’t know -”

Sherlock cut him off with a kiss. “Yes,” he murmured, allowing his forehead to touch Greg’s. Sherlock gently stroked Greg’s cheek, trying to convey what he could not say, what he was scared to say. Out loud would make it so much more real, and he wasn’t sure he could handle it. Not yet. Carefully Sherlock wrapped his arms around Greg, holding him, making sure that he could not leave.

“I’m staying right here,” Greg said softly, understanding, anticipating.

“Good.” Sherlock knew it would be a long road, knew there would be pitfalls, misunderstandings - he had seen so many prior relationships fail, seen the worst humanity could offer. Greg was all he ever wanted, all he would ever need. They would make it. It would all be okay.


End file.
